Chapter III: A "sister" for Hermione

WITHIN the Hall library Mr. Dalrymple sat before a massive escritoire, writing. All things in this commodious room were massive— bookcases, chairs, couches, pictures, ornaments, above all this central table, with its multitudinous drawers and receptacles. The June sunshine blazed in through a large bow-window, falling unheeded on the silver head of the old man.

He was tall and thin, and held himself erect, even at his desk, which after seventy-five is not usual. The silvery hair curled still about the finely-moulded head; and the clean-shaven delicate face, a uniform pale bronze in hue, was steadfastly set to the work in hand, the eyes fixed, the lips somewhat compressed.

Mr. Dalrymple spent the greater part of his life in this room. He had been there now for hours off and on, writing letters, always writing letters. A wide and varied correspondence was his, including the personal management of his property, intercourse with the friends of a long life, interchange of ideas with literary and scientific men of note, and the perpetual response to perpetual appeals for money or aid. People said he ought to keep a secretary, and he had made the attempt, only to fail. Somehow he never could find a secretary to suit him; the reason perhaps being that he never could endure to let anybody answer his letters except himself.

"If you want a thing done, do it!" is a good piece of advice, within limits. Mr. Dalrymple carried this principle to excess. He was very independent; his friends said he never would be helped.

In habits of life he was most regular. He lived by rule, rose and went to bed by rule, ate and drank by rule, worked and took recreation by rule. His was no self-indulgent existence, governed by the sway of his own desires. Always up at six o'clock, he had his morning constitutional before breakfast, except in the depth of winter; he had his ride with Hermione late in the afternoon; and each hour between held its own occupation.

He was particular and precise in his employments—not in a disagreeable fashion, but certainly in characteristic modes. Every letter that he despatched left its exact copy behind, always in Mr. Dalrymple's well-formed and beautiful handwriting. A secretary might at least have copied these letters; but no, Mr. Dalrymple would do the whole himself. Every drawer and pigeon-hole in the huge writing-table had some special use assigned to it. Every paper possessed by Mr. Dalrymple could be found without fail at five minutes' notice.

Though far too well-balanced in mind and too dignified in manner ever to fall into a hurry, there could be no doubt that Mr. Dalrymple was a genuinely busy man. Absolute leisure had been with him a thing almost unknown through forty years or more. As is often the case, he worked harder and more incessantly than do, as a rule, those who possess stated employments, and who have to earn their own living. For Mr. Dalrymple was known to be a man of means, and was counted to "have plenty of time on his hands;" therefore everybody, without compunction, appealed to him. If the response was not always what the appellant wished, at least no one was left without a response.

He was a good old man, this gentle yet prompt and resolute owner of Westford. He had served a Divine Master steadfastly through forty years. What he saw to be right he would do, no matter at what personal cost.

Busy as were his week-days, his Sundays were far from idle. Alike in summer and winter he might be seen at the early eight o'clock Holy Communion; and his silvery head was rarely missing from the Squire's pew during the morning and evening services. In the afternoon he would wend his way down to the classroom of the village-school, by Hermione's side, to teach a dozen village boys great truths in simple words.

Certainly Gilbert Dalrymple, Squire of Westford, did not spare himself; and the religion which he acted out on Sunday was by no means laid to slumber through the week.

He had gone much into questions of the day; he had read books by men of every shade of opinion; he had friends, wide asunder as the poles from him and from each other in their views; yet his own faith had lived unscathed through all oppositions, growing indeed and deepening, but keeping ever its early purity. Even those of his friends who differed most strongly from him, could not but feel the weight of that child-like trust, shown forth, not by much speech, but by a holy life.

For the trust was not in a theory, not in a doctrine, not in an idea, but in a MAN—the one Perfect God-Man, our Crucified and Risen Lord. It rested mainly not on arguments, not on skilled deductions, not on cleverly-handled theories, but on the historic testimony of the early Church, on the Divinely-written Word, and on his own personal knowledge of that Risen Lord, who had "loved and given Himself" for him—a knowledge which had sprung, as such knowledge alone can spring, from the Master's revelation of Himself to His child.

Then, it may be asked, which comes first in order of time?— the Master's revealing, or the child's seeking?—the knowledge or the trust?

How can we tell? The hidden workings which lead to either consummation lie beyond our ken. There cannot be knowledge without trust, or trust without knowledge. There will not be either without the use of God's provided Means; yet the Means of Grace are nought without the Divine outpouring into and through them. There will not be revealing without seeking, and there cannot be seeking without revealing. As each increases, the other is increased thereby. Attempting to define further, we find ourselves in a fog of terms.

As Mr. Dalrymple wrote, he lifted his eyes from time to time for a glance towards the bow-window. A small davenport stood there, and beside it a work-basket, also a lady's basket-chair. A little half-made print frock had been dropped across the arm of the chair, and a silver thimble lay on the davenport. It might have been a child's thimble, but it was not.

This was Hermione's favourite retreat. She spent many an hour of each day there, and was never so happy as in her grandfather's presence. While he, busy as he might be, was never at rest in Hermione's absence.

He struck presently a small gong, and the butler appeared.

"Where is Miss Rivers?"

"I am not sure, sir. She was, I believe, in the garden with Miss Fitzalan. I will inquire if she is gone out."

Slade was a middle-aged man, highly superior and elaborately polite. He had so quiet a step as to be suggestive of tip-toe, and no excitement ever caused him to raise his voice above the suppressed accents which he counted decorous.

"Do so," was the brief answer. "If Miss Rivers is in, ask her to come to me."

Slade vanished, and Mr. Dalrymple went on writing. As each letter came to an end, he read it through, copied it, folded it neatly, enveloped, addressed, stamped, and laid it aside; placed the copy in one drawer, and the answered letter in another; then turned his attention to a fresh claimant. There were no signs of either haste or weariness in the method of proceeding. Mr. Dalrymple seemed interested and thoroughly business-like.

Rap-rap softly at the door; and enter Slade once more.

"Well?" Mr. Dalrymple said.

"I cannot find Miss Rivers, sir."

"Have you asked Milton?"

"I have, sir. Mrs. Milton is in ignorance."

"And Stevens?"

"Miss Rivers was in the orchis-house, sir, half-an-hour since. Stevens saw Miss Rivers take the way of the shrubbery."

"Four o'clock. She will be in to afternoon tea," Mr. Dalrymple observed.

"Yes, sir," assented Slade.

A pause.

"That will do," said Mr. Dalrymple. He had a dignified yet very courteous manner of speaking to his servants.

Slade stood still, an anxious line across his forehead.

"If you please, sir, a gentleman desires to see you."

"A gentleman, eh?" Mr. Dalrymple looked up. "Who?"

"The gentleman desired me to say so much. He declined to send in any name, sir."

"What is his business?"

"He appeared to prefer telling you himself, sir."

"Ha! somebody wanting money."

"No, I believe not, sir!" Slade spoke with emphasis.

Mr. Dalrymple gave the man a questioning glance, noted the anxious horizontal line, and inquired, "Do you know who it is?"

Slade was truthful. The line deepened, but he replied, "I do, sir."

"And you don't feel at liberty to tell me?"

"Sir, the gentleman desired me not."

Mr. Dalrymple's expression was curious. He said simply, "You may show the gentleman in."

Slade opened the door, and Mr. Dalrymple returned to his work. He expected an interval of two or three minutes to elapse before the caller should appear, and two or three minutes were in his estimation too valuable to be wasted in idle waiting.

He did not see a figure just outside the door, or a silencing hand raised when Slade would have spoken; nor did he see that as Slade glided out somebody else glided in.

Five minutes or more went by before it occurred to Mr. Dalrymple that Slade really was an unconscionable time absent. He lifted his eyes involuntarily, and they fell upon a gentleman standing in an attitude of careless ease not far from the writing-table.

The sunshine was full in Mr. Dalrymple's face, while the other stood in shade. He rose politely, with an apologetic, "I beg your pardon. I did not hear your name announced."

"It was not. I would not let Slade speak."

The voice agitated Mr. Dalrymple strangely, for it was the voice of his only and beloved brother, dead many long years before. Harvey had inherited from the grandfather, whom he had never even seen, tones and tricks of speech to a singular degree. Mr. Dalrymple knew in an instant who his visitor was—would have known had the room been pitch dark.

"Harvey, my dear fellow!" he said, as three strides brought him round the table.

It had been a matter of doubt with Harvey what manner of welcome he might find. True, his was not a prodigal's return, since he had led a life free from vicious indulgences. Such things were "not in his line," he would have said. He had only been unmanageably indolent, and politely persistent in having his own way. Moreover, although he undoubtedly "owed Mr. Dalrymple something," as Marjory expressed it, he was an independent man of means; and since his own father had lived till he was twenty-one, his great-uncle had never possessed any legal control over his movements.

Still, Harvey Dalrymple was the old man's heir, and was at least indebted to him for long kindness and affection. If Harvey had a right to act for himself, Mr. Dalrymple had a right to be made aware of his intentions. This, which Marjory felt keenly, Harvey ought to have felt no less keenly.

Perhaps he did feel it, since he had hurried home before the end of his honeymoon to explain and apologise; since too he certainly counted on a measure of possible annoyance.

Even apart from the news of his marriage, he looked for something of coolness. He knew that the eight years' absence had given displeasure, and it had not occurred to him that sorrow might have been so much stronger than displeasure as to render joy at his coming the predominant sensation.

Whatever kind of reception he had pictured to himself as probable, he certainly had not pictured this—the old man's two hands clasping his in a fervent grasp, the faltering voice scarcely able to articulate, the stately grey head bent and trembling.

"My dear fellow!" came again, and then, "I must sit down."

"You are not well?"

"Nothing, nothing—only the suddenness. Yes, quite well; it is nothing."

"I ought to have given warning. How thoughtless of me!" said Harvey, really contrite. "This way—" and he guided Mr. Dalrymple's uncertain steps to an armchair. "I am sorry to have startled you so much."

Mr. Dalrymple motioned him to a second chair close by. Harvey obeyed the gesture, and watched in grave silence the lessening tremulousness.

"Hermione has not mentioned your health in writing," he said at length; "and I did not suppose—"

"Nothing whatever is wrong with my health! Nothing whatever." Mr. Dalrymple spoke almost testily. The very idea seemed to act as a tonic, and he sat upright, looked braced. "No, I am only getting old; and there is no cure for old age. But you have been much in my mind lately. I have purposed to write, pressing for your return. It seemed to me that the time had come."

"One hardly realises how the years fly," Harvey remarked a little constrainedly.

"You think not. Perhaps, at your age. But it is enough to have you here at last! Your coming removes a load from my mind. There is much to see to, much to arrange. I have waited anxiously for this day. And you have come home, I trust, weary of wandering."

"Like a vagabond, according to Sutton," observed Harvey, with a forced laugh.

"But you have had enough; you will stay at home now," urged Mr. Dalrymple, when Harvey would fain have evaded the question. "This is always your real home."

"I am afraid—not long. I have engagements," Harvey said hesitatingly. He could not resolve to speak yet of two nights only.

"Well, a few weeks will settle things, perhaps. We shall see. And when you go, it will not be for eight years again!"

"I hope not, indeed. It ought not to have been," Harvey said, touched with the gentle rebuke.

"You have not seen Hermione yet?"

"No; I am told that she has fulfilled her childish promise of prettiness."

"More—more than fulfilled it. My child is very lovely, Harvey— a strangely favoured being; and I am favoured in her." He gazed earnestly at the young man. "When you see Hermione you will understand. She is all sweetness—to me a being without fault. I never have to blame my Hermione, for I find nothing to blame. Yet she is natural, simple, girl-like; no forced hot-house plant. I do not fear to say too much of her, for indeed she surpasses all I could say. She is the sunshine of my old age. All who know her, love her as she well deserves to be loved. I trust you will appreciate what she is. My heart's dearest hope for years has been that you—"

Harvey could not let this go on. He broke in abruptly—

"Hermione and I are old friends. She has always been my little sister."

Mr. Dalrymple shook his head.

"Second cousins only—no, no! I could wish a nearer—"

"And I hope nothing will ever break through that tie," continued Harvey with haste. "By-the-bye, I have not told you yet my chief item of news. What will Hermione say to me for giving her a new cousin— a sister, if she will have me for her brother still?"

The word was repeated mechanically— "A sister!"

A minute of dead silence followed; then— "You mean—that you are engaged?"

"I have been married for more than three weeks?"

To this no answer came. Silence reigned.